The Grandfather Clause
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Some nit-picking about lock picking.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Thanks, Cheri and Lynn, for the beta-work. I am informed that this story contradicts a previous one I wrote. I might be making this stuff up. ;-)

**Author's Note:** In "Man in a Glass House" Mark accompanies the judge on his raid on police impound to liberate a mobster's files. After scaling the fence in the middle of the night, Mark pulls out a small leather case, removes a tool, and deals with the lock on the mobster's car.

The current challenge is to explain where that lock picking equipment came from. After the dust had settled, I think Hardcastle would have wanted to know the answer to that, too.

**The Grandfather Clause**

by L.M. Lewis

It was half-past four by the time they'd gotten out of Carlton's office, with McCormick practically dragging him by the arm and not taking 'no' for an answer. Once they'd been clear of the police station, the younger man had gone silent, heading for the car with his shoulders hunched forward and both hands stuffed into his pants pockets.

It might have been fatigue; both of them had been up since yesterday morning, and their activities had included a little breaking and entering, being attacked by guard dogs, a couple of car chases, and a hasty and successful effort to salvage Cadillac's files before the car that contained them exploded in flames.

He supposed it would have been a lot, on top of all that, to expect the kid to go through being booked. He realized he'd let out a sigh as he'd lowered himself into the passenger side of the Coyote. McCormick was giving him a questioning look.

"Don't tell me you're still ticked because Carlton wouldn't let you confess." McCormick shook his head and put the key in the ignition. "Get over it—I have."

"Nah," Hardcastle huffed, "All for the best. I suppose once in a while the good guys get off on a technicality."

"A first time for everything," Mark muttered as he twisted halfway round and backed the car out. "And this way Sarah won't have to bake you a pie with a file in it." He tossed the remark off without much apparent thought, then flushed slightly and fell silent again, looking very focused on what was ordinary city driving.

It didn't take much to follow McCormick's unspoken thoughts. The judge furrowed his brow. From the ludicrous image of his housekeeper being an accessory before the fact, to the ways and means of getting through locked doors in general, to what they'd done last night. _I'm a better second story man than you._ It hadn't been an idle boast. His resident ex-con had gotten into Cadillac's trunk faster than a man could fish a key ring out of his pocket and find the right one in the dark. That made sense, of course. Car repossession had been the guy's day job for a long time—practically since he'd been a teenager.

But the lock picks, ready to hand in an obviously well-traveled case, that was another matter entirely. Even being in possession of them was a parole violation. Hardcastle hadn't given it much thought at the time, since he'd assumed when it was all over he'd be turning himself in. As for McCormick, his lesser offenses would have been subsumed by the greater—assisting in the B&E—and all of that would have been written off as coercion.

He felt a twinge of regret that the final consequences hadn't occurred to him before this. Even if he himself had gotten off with a minimal sentence, it would have spelled the end for his project and McCormick would have been removed from his custody. He glanced sidewards, wondering if the younger man had understood the implications. Probably not. If he had, he might not have been so eager to get them out of Carlton's office.

But this unexpected reprieve led to another problem—the damn set of picks. He'd seen McCormick stealthily stowing them in the glove compartment. It hadn't been long after they'd hightailed it away from the impound lot.

No doubt they were still there. The two of them both knew there'd been no actual coercion involved in McCormick's participation and it was equally evident that the picks had been in his possession prior to last night; he must've used them to liberate the Coyote from Cody's facility.

This was one of those things that couldn't be overlooked. Hardcastle shook his head.

"What now?" Mark asked, sounding like a guy who hadn't had any sleep.

_He spent the night making sure you didn't get in a jam. _

"Nothing, just thinking." He'd decided the conversation could wait until later but the picks would have to go.

00000

Sarah had a ham waiting for them at home even though he'd called her, hours earlier, and told her he might not be home for dinner.

"It makes good sandwiches," she'd said unperturbedly, when he'd mentioned that he was turning himself in to the authorities. It was fairly clear that she'd been assuming a delay of at most a few hours.

Sarah asked no inconvenient questions. That the two men were still in basic black and looking about done in seemed only to call for the convenience of supper in the kitchen.

Ham, fresh biscuits, scalloped potatoes and green beans were laid out. Hardcastle sank into his usual chair, surprised not to be all that hungry. He wasn't sure if it was lack of sleep, or the prospect of the after-dinner conversation that was putting a damper on things for him.

Tired or not—and apparently unaware of the judge's discontentment—it looked like McCormick's appetite was fine.

"There's an apple pie for dessert," Sarah admonished as Mark reached for the scalloped potatoes a _third_ time.

He watched the kid suppress a grin—and probably a smart remark about files-in-pies right along with it. _Next thing you know, he'll be joking about the picks._

That was half the problem, Hardcastle figured. He didn't take this stuff seriously. He'd used them twice in as many weeks with no regard for the consequences. The very last place McCormick should have been, the night before, was out in the garage waiting—and with a set of burglary tools in his pocket. Hardcastle grimaced.

"Indigestion?" Sarah inquired politely. "There's some bicarbonate of soda in the cabinet—"

"No," he pushed his half-finished plate back, "but maybe I'll wait till later on the pie." He glared at McCormick, who apparently sensed a change in the sea wind and was at least no longer looking amused. "You finished?" he asked.

The younger man glanced down at his plate. It seemed to be demonstrating the 'waste not, want not' principle. He looked up again and nodded, now with a distinctly concerned expression.

Hardcastle was on his feet, and jerked his thumb toward the front of the house—the general direction of his den. It was a clear indication that he expected Mark to follow him as he offered Sarah a quick nod of thanks for the meal and headed out of the room.

When he got to the front hallway he gestured again, this time toward the front door, and the Coyote parked out in the drive.

"Get 'em," he announced curtly, and then took the two steps down into the room. He didn't turn until he'd arrived at his desk. McCormick was still standing there, looking convincingly puzzled.

"Get what?" he asked quietly.

Hardcastle didn't want to start the argument prematurely, though he half-suspected the kid already knew what he was after.

"The picks," he said simply, and then he added, "_now_," with just enough force so that McCormick knew he was serious.

All he got was an honest frown, with a hint of surprise in the eyebrows. That only hung there for a moment, followed by a deep sigh as McCormick turned to open the door.

The judge didn't quite know what to make of it. Had McCormick thought he'd get away without being called on this one? Was it some form of testing the limits?

He didn't have much time to analyze it. There wasn't any dawdling. As McCormick re-entered, the judge leaned forward in his seat and tapped the middle of the desk-top. The case was deposited without a word. The younger man's expression—confusion, _disappointment_—spoke for itself.

Hardcastle had the lecture already sketched out in his head—criminal code 466 and its application to a two-time felon on parole. He'd been on the verge of launching it when something in that expression caught him off-guard. He heard himself asking, instead, "Where'd you get 'em?"

He got a little satisfaction seeing the question take McCormick by surprise. Hardcastle suspected he already knew the answer—_Barb Johnson_. From what he knew of the circumstances immediately surrounding the Coyote snatch and the subsequent arrest, she would have been the only one in a position to hold onto them for him—a couple of crazy kids who didn't have a lick of sense between them.

It was no wonder McCormick was hesitating now. If the judge had learned anything about him in the past couple of weeks, it was that he had an unswerving loyalty to his friends. Now he looked like he was buying a little time, slowly sinking into the chair on the opposite side of the desk, as if he suspected the interrogation was going to be a long one. He cleared his throat—more hesitation.

"From my mom."

Hardcastle raised one eyebrow, the other one joining it a fraction of a second later.

"Well . . . sort of."

The judge glanced down at the leather case and then up again, fixing the younger man with a doubtful stare that was an obvious request for further details.

"We were moving one time, when I was a kid. I was old enough to help pack," he frowned in thought, "maybe nine. So she put me to work getting stuff out of the closet. Boxes."

The story-telling was choppy, way off from what Hardcastle already knew to be McCormick standard, but somehow for all that it had the ring of truth. _You can already tell when he's lying?_ It was because the guy didn't lie all that much, Hardcastle suspected.

"Anyway," Mark shrugged, "I found a box full of old stuff—some photos, just odd and ends—and that was in it." He indicated the case with a nod. "I didn't know what they were, just thought they were neat, that's all. I showed 'em to her."

"What'd she say?"

"Oh . . . well, she didn't say all that much. She said they were tools—and she said they'd belonged to my grandfather." He was staring off a little to Hardcastle's left, out the window.

"A locksmith, huh?" the judge said doubtfully.

Mark's eyes snapped over to him again. "She didn't go into much detail," he said dryly. "She took 'em from me and that was that."

"So, then—"

"After she died, a couple years later, they told me to pack a suitcase and be ready to go. I went through her stuff, looking for pictures, _anything_—" He'd been gathering speed. He caught himself, took a breath, and ratcheted the whole thing into a lower gear. "I found them in a drawer. By that time I knew what they were for."

Hardcastle snorted.

"Well," McCormick let half a smile slip out, "sort of. I thought they might come in handy and . . . you know, they'd belonged to my grandfather."

"You ever met him?" There was doubt back in the judge's tone.

Mark said nothing. He shook his head.

"Hmm." Hardcastle left it at that. It didn't seem like a real good time to pull on any of the threads that might unravel this story. It was pretty obviously just that—a story—but once again he had an odd notion that it wasn't McCormick's lie, merely one he'd been told and chosen to believe.

But there was still the matter of the case in the middle of his desk. A damn awkward problem.

"They did," he heard himself say, "come in handy, I mean."

McCormick was staring at him. It looked like pure astonishment. Maybe it would be a good thing if the kid realized he wasn't much for lying, either.

"Yeah," Mark said, finally breaking off and glancing down at them fondly, "very handy." He twitched his gaze back up again. "What were _you_ going to use on that trunk, a sledge hammer?"

"Maybe." Hardcastle frowned, then added cautiously. "How hard are they to use?"

"Depends on the lock . . . and how much practice you've had," McCormick said, equally cautious. "Why?"

The judge was patently aware that he was about to stray off the straight and narrow. He'd never noticed that there was a shoulder to the road. He'd always figured the drop was pretty much straight down.

"Flagrant necessity," he said, abruptly decisive.

McCormick wasn't looking particularly informed by this terse remark.

"That's what we did last night," Hardcastle explained patiently. "It's an otherwise unlawful deed rendered lawful by an extreme situation—like the need to save a person's life."

The younger man's eyes opened slightly in disbelief. "Hell, that's what _I_ woulda said."

"Except you didn't know what it was called."

"I do _now_." Mark said cheerfully. "And you never know when something like that's going to come up again, huh?"

Hardcastle rousted up a good grumbling tone and said, "I s'pose not."

His two-time felon—and unexpected back-up—leaned forward slightly, as if he weren't quite sure where the conversation was going but had a hopeful inkling.

"Keep 'em somewhere safe," the judge muttered.

McCormick smiled. His hand snaked forward and snatched up the case, as though he thought getting it out of sight might be a good idea. He was on his feet and halfway to the door before he halted suddenly and turned, almost bouncing on his heels.

"I could show you how to use 'em."

Hardcastle hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Outtahere," he growled. A guy could only stray so far in one day.


End file.
